End of the Line
by Jeanny
Summary: Summary: When Anya comes to him, he can't refuse her. Even if he knows he should. (Spoilers through Showtime)


Title: End of the Line

Author: Jeanny

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: Please. jeannygrrl@hotmail.com

Spoilers: Season 7 Through Showtime

Distribution: I don't mind, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Summary: When Anya comes to Xander, he can't refuse her. Even if he knows he should.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the characters that appear on the show are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant Enemy, Inc., UPN and any one else with a legal binding claim to the shows and/or characters. No copyright infringement is intended.

********

When she'd come to him that first time, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he'd been drawn to Anya by his innocence. There he'd been, inexperienced and confused and frustrated with his life. There she'd been, baring her body (if not her soul). Offering him sex without strings. He'd known even at that moment it would never be that simple. Nothing in life was ever simple, he knew that, he knew, but she had wanted him at a point when no one else seemed to, and that had been irresistible.

Well, that and the naked sex part.

When she came to him the last time, mere hours ago, he'd been drawn to her by his guilt. She had, probably against her better judgment, fallen in love with him in a way no one else ever had, ever would. He knew how she'd loved him: wholly, completely, utterly. He'd never felt even remotely worthy of such devotion; that intensity had frightened him more than any demon. The fear ate away at his resolve until at the worst possible moment it had turned into utter panic and he'd pushed her away. Out of his arms, out of his bed and back into vengeance. Since then they'd both hurt each other as much as two people could and still be breathing, but he'd been the one who'd caused it all. He was the one who'd faltered at the moment of truth, who'd cast her down into that mess of vampire sex and giant worms and spiders and death. So when she'd come to him tonight, so vulnerable and needy. Offering him sex again, and again he couldn't refuse her. No, not this time.

Even if he probably should have. 

Now, after, he wonders what possessed him to take her here. They'd made love on the training mat in Buffy's basement, amid the dankness and smell of teen girl sweat and leather. Of course, their first time had been in a basement, though that one had smelled of Tide and bleach. He'd proposed to her in the Magic Box basement, the smell of which he preferred not to recall. He supposes the basement was the only right for this, whatever this is. 

He pretends he doesn't know what this is. 

He's always been a bad liar. 

Xander sighs and she rolls over, faces him tenderly for the first (last) time...after. He gazes at her, memorizes, searches, finds nothing that surprises him, except...wait...satisfaction, relief, a bit of guilt and...yes, he was right the first time. 

Nothing. That surprises him. 

Stupid, but he never thought she'd fall out of love with him so quickly. Okay, he knows it hasn't really been fast, but it feels fast. It feels incredibly sudden, startling, even more than turning around with a juice box in your hand and seeing a girl you barely knew standing there naked. Another basement, another time, meaningless sex that had meant everything. Just as the guilt sex they'd just had had only served to increase his shame.

Okay, he needs to stay away from basements. Basements are evil dens of irony. No wonder Spike went insane. 

"Hey," she says, his expression a cause of concern. "You okay?"

Right. Bad time to think about Spike.

"Are you?" he asks, because avoiding isn't really lying.

"Couldn't be better. That was nice." She smiles, a bit tentative, a bit unsure of him. He tries to smile back, to be okay for her, or to make her think he is. Not working; she looks away, crawls away, can't get away fast enough, dragging the blanket with her as she searches for her clothes. He shivers; basements can be chilly when you're not having some kind of paradoxical sex with your ex-girlfriend. 

"Nice," he manages. He should find his own clothes, he knows, but that feels like the end and he thinks it's not. Feels like they're not finished yet, though that might be the crazy basement talking. He wishes he could believe this is a new beginning for them. That it meant he might get her back.

He wishes he could wish.

"I need to get going," she continues breezily. She's dressing with her back to him and he knows he could lean forward and stretch and his fingertips would touch her, but he wouldn't reach her. "I promised Buffy I'd help with the shopping before the hormonal adolescent horde upstairs consumes every scrap of food in the-"

"Anya..." he interrupts softly, and she pulls away, physically this time.

"Please don't." The plea is a whisper, but there's no real request behind it. There's nothing behind it. 

"Don't what?"

"Don't make this all awkward and bad," she shrugs. He stares at her for a moment before managing to speak.

"Is...is that what you think I'm doing?"

"I don't really know what you're doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I just know that...that this was fun and it was nice but...it doesn't mean I...it doesn't mean I want to..."

She doesn't have to finish the thought. He knows what she means. She doesn't want...strings. Not if they tie her to him.

"Then why? Why now?" he asks, more dejected than bitter, for now.

"Because you didn't say no," she answers, sighing at his confusion. After a moment's hesitation she tosses him the blanket, which he takes gratefully, and takes a seat and continuing, "Well, first I offered Spike sex, not because I really wanted to sleep with him but to distract him but he's all about having his soul and being transformed and loving Buffy so he turned me down flat, which was all right, I guess. But then I go debase myself before this incredibly annoying minor demon who's been trying to get with me for more than a few centuries. I offer sex to him he acts like I'm too disgusting to spit on. And just to complete my humiliation, I proposition Giles and he just...runs away."

"Giles?" he asks in disbelief, and she nods, pats his hand, understanding. 

"Like a scared little boy. I worry about him. He's so British."

No, not understanding. So typically Anya it hurts. Well, okay, it already hurts.

"GILES?"

"He said my hair was attractive." She shakes her head ruefully. "Forget Giles. You wanted to know why, and I'm trying to tell you. Don't you get it? I had to know you...I just needed to know that I hadn't lost everything..." 

Anya trails off, and he has no idea how to respond. There are so many things he could say, but most of them are pointless now. Sitting there, she's already gone. Free. Unencumbered by her love of him. Finally he manages a quiet reply.

"Well, now you know you haven't."

Maybe it's the mild emphasis on the second to last word that he just can't help. Or possibly gratitude or fondness or even guilt, but Anya kisses him before she leaves. One lingering, breathtakingly thorough kiss. A good-bye kiss. 

A final kiss.

Her soft voice carries down from the top of the stairs.

"I'm sorry."

Xander dresses quickly after she leaves. Empty basements are too cold, and you should never be alone in them. You never know when your heart might be ripped from your chest by someone close to you. 

********

That would be the end, then.


End file.
